Nine Lives to Murder

by Marian Babson

  The pit bull tore across the stage, the more terrifying for its very silence. It wasted no breath on barks or growls, all its energies were concentrated on killing.

  Monty took charge. The cat leaped from the table to the stage curtain and climbed it in a blur of speed. The dog hurled itself at the foot of the curtain, standing on its hind legs, stretching as high as it could, emitting a frustrated whine.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Rambo.’ Woody advanced with a nasty leer. ‘We’ll get him down for you.’ He grabbed the curtain and began to shake it.

  ‘EEEEOOOWWW …’ Monty shrieked. ‘YEEEOOOOWWW …’ He was clinging on—literally—for dear life.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ a high crisp voice demanded.

  Oh Bast! It was Cynthia. And she carried the Duchess of Malfi in her arms.

  ‘Go back!’ he yowled. ‘Go back!’ But it was too late. The dog had already seen them.

  ‘Here, Rambo! Up here! Not them!’ Woody’s voice rose in panic as he saw what he had done.

  The dog whirled and raced for Cynthia and Malfi. One kill was as good as another—and Malfi was the easier target. Cynthia’s soft flesh would be no obstruction to him. Not for long.

  Cynthia screamed and tried to back away from the charging fury, holding Malfi above her head.

  ‘No, Rambo! No!’ Woody raced after the dog. ‘Sit! Stay!’ He might as well not have shouted. Rambo was out of control.

  Cynthia went on screaming. Malfì added her cries.

  OH BAST! Not my darling Malfi! Not my sweet silly Cynthia! With a blood-curdling war cry, the cat launched himself from the top of the curtain, aiming at Rambo’s back, claws outstretched.

  Woody snatched for the heavy studded collar.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Drawn by the screams and shouts, the others began appearing in the wings.

  Miranda took in the situation in one look and disappeared again.

  ‘Help me!’ Cynthia screamed, sidestepping the snapping jaws by a split-second. ‘Help me! Mad dog!’ Malfi yowled in anguish, knowing what would happen to her if the dog reached her; she struggled to free herself from Cynthia’s grasp and run.

  Monty landed on Rambo’s back—and slipped as the dog veered. His claws scored the dog’s side as he slid. The dog turned to snap at him and Cynthia moved a few feet closer to safety.

  Woody snatched his hand back just in time; if Rambo’s teeth had closed on it, he would have been maimed. Mad with excitement and bloodlust, Rambo knew no master now.

  ‘Here—take these!’ Miranda was back, with an armload of umbrellas and walking sticks she had taken from the umbrella stand. ‘No! Win! Not you! Come back!’

  Winstanley Fortescue, clutching the pole that had once doubled as the Christmas tree, had been following behind her. Now he moved forward, the light of battle in his eyes. He jabbed the pole at the dog, forcing it to retreat.

  ‘Good thinking!’ Ace Barron took a walking stick in each hand and went to join Win. Davy and Geoffrey took a walking stick each. There were only umbrellas left, but Oliver Crump grabbed one and began flailing it in front of him.

  In unison, they advanced on the dog, driving it back from Cynthia, so that she had a chance to turn and run while they held the animal at bay. They heard the door of her dressing-room slam.

  ‘Who’s responsible for this?’ Rufus swung an umbrella as the dog tried to follow his prey into the wings. ‘Where did this animal come from?’

  The dog growled and snapped, facing a forest of sticks and umbrellas. Woody had crossed to the far side of the stage and taken shelter behind the curtain, trying to give the impression that he had never been there at all.

  ‘That’s your beast—and I know it, Woody Woodson!’ Tottie called out. ‘And I’ve rung nine-nine-nine and told the police to get here with the dog-handlers—and an ambulance.’

  ‘By God, Woody,’ Rufus fumed, ‘I should have fired you when Win wanted me to. If that thing harms anyone, you’ll never work in another theatre!’

  Almost cornered, Rambo snarled and made one more attempt to escape. With an unerring instinct for the weakest link in the chain, Rambo hurled himself straight at Oliver Crump.

  ‘No!’ Dame Theodora screamed as the beast lunged. ‘Don’t you dare hurt my Oliver!’ She stepped forward, heavily-laden beaded handbag swinging and smashed the metal rim down on Rambo’s nose.

  ‘I always knew you cared, Auntie Thea,’ Oliver said gratefully.

  At the same moment, three walking sticks flailed at Rambo, one of them emitting a strange buzz as it landed on his flank. Oliver pushed a button on the umbrella handle and the umbrella flew open in the dog’s face.

  Rambo yelped and, surrounded by hostile forces, retreated slowly, forced back against the wall, hemmed in.

  ‘Get something to throw over him!’ Rufus ordered. ‘A rug, a coat—anything! Get over here, Woodson, and control your beast!’

  ‘He’s quite friendly, really,’ Woody said unconvincingly. ‘He’s just upset because of everybody having a go at him—and, of course, the cats. Otherwise he’d’ve been all right.’

  Monty hissed sharply from the shelter of the wings.

  ‘Don’t tell us that!’ Tottie snapped. ‘I know you fight him against other dogs. I’ve had half a mind to report you for weeks. Now you’re for it!’

  ‘You’re all against me,’ Woody whined. ‘Everybody from the fat bastard down. A man’s got to have a bit of fun.’ He attempted to approach Rambo, but the dog bared his teeth and waited. Woody had second thoughts and stayed where he was.

  ‘Keep those sticks moving,’ Rufus directed. ‘Keep the animal confused and distracted. Don’t give it time to think.’

  ‘Cruelty to dumb animals, this is,’ Woody protested. ‘I’ll have the law on you.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Tottie said. In the distance, they could hear the whoop of sirens. ‘Now’s your chance. The law is going to be very interested in anything you have to say.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing!’ Woody spoke too quickly. ‘You can’t make out that I did.’ He began backing away.

  ‘I wonder—’ Rufus said. He was not the only one looking at Woody with sudden surmise.

  Woody! Of course, Woody. Sullen, dishonest, malevolent—and always around. So much a part of the scenery as to be unnoticed. The cat growled softly. Woody, who nursed a grudge against Winstanley Fortescue because Win had wanted him fired. If he lost his job at the Chesterton, he would not find it easy to get another.

  Yes, Woody even fitted the profile: a grudge-holder, an opportunist—and basically stupid. He had taken the chance of hitting out at Win, who was standing on the stepladder with no one paying attention. Perhaps he only meant to cause injury, but he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams when Win wound up on a life-support machine. It must have seemed a good idea to slip into St Monica’s and throw the switch to turn off the electricity and finish the job. Dead, Winstanley Fortescue was no longer a threat; alive, he could—and would—have got rid of Woody as soon as he took over the Chesterton.

  Woody, who was too stupid to know, or care, about anyone else who might also be on one of the life-support machines. A murderer, by mistake. He had killed the wrong man. But still determined to get Win, he had returned again to put paint stripper (yes, that was the terrible smell) in Win’s orange juice. With security so slack at St Monica’s, he would have had no trouble getting in and out, with a bouquet of flowers obscuring his face. No one would have thought twice about seeing someone delivering flowers.

  He knew now—and he couldn’t talk. Couldn’t tell anyone. Oh Bast! Was Woody going to get away with it? The others were only concerned about the way he had introduced the dog backstage. Couldn’t they see that anyone who would do that would do anything?

  The cat’s body shook with fury and frustration; he began creeping forward. There was one thing he could do: He could give Woody a few scars to remember him by! Too bad Woody would never know that they came comp
liments of Winstanley Fortescue!

  ‘YEOW-OW! Get off, you little git!’ Woody howled as Monty fastened on his knee, clawing and biting.

  There was a thunder of running footsteps down the corridor from the Stage Door and several policemen spilled on to the stage.

  The men holding the dog at bay were momentarily distracted, some looking towards Woody, others towards the police. Rambo saw his chance and surged forward, aiming at Monty.

  ‘That’s right, Rambo!’ Woody yelled. ‘Kill it! Kill it! Kill! Kill! Kill them all!’

  The cat fought wildly to retract his claws and get away. Now Woody was trying to hold him instead of throw him off. Rambo zigzagged as the police came at him, but was still intent on his prey.

  ‘Leave Monty alone!’ Tottie rushed to defend the cat—with no weapon except her righteous indignation.

  ‘Uuuurrr!’ The Instrument agreed. He wielded the pole like a spear, driving the dog away. Then he lifted the pole to bring it down across the dog’s back and Rambo ran under it.

  ‘Kill!’ Woody demanded. ‘Kill!’

  Ace Barron slammed both sticks at Rambo. Once again, there was the curious buzzing sound. Rambo yelped and leaped away, racing to the edge of the stage as they closed in on him, then soaring across the footlights into the auditorium.

  The police charged after the dog, except for the two who moved to stand one on each side of Woody. ‘Inciting to violence,’ one of them said.

  ‘Ring down the safety curtain!’ Rufus shouted orders. ‘Turn up the house lights!’ Davy and the stage hands rushed to obey.

  The fireproof wall rumbled down slowly, sealing the stage off safely from the auditorium.

  In the abrupt silence, Winstanley Fortescue leaned forward and gently detached Monty from Woody’s knee. He and the cat clung to each other, looking into each other’s eyes with deep sadness and the beginning of resignation.

  Ace Barron was examining one of the walking sticks with a puzzled expression. As he touched a knob on the engraved silver handle, it buzzed again.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a cattle prod. No wonder the dog jumped.’

  And no wonder Winstanley Fortescue had leaped into space when that had been rammed into the small of his back and detonated. The cat growled and tried to get at Woody again, but Win held fast.

  ‘“Peter Farley, a souvenir of Texas—”’ Ace read out the inscription on the handle. “‘From his many friends and admirers. In case of emergency, apply to critics.”’

  ‘I don’t think that’s funny,’ Oliver Crump said stiffly.

  ‘Never mind, Oliver.’ Dame Theodora patted his hand. ‘When you write this up and deliver it to your paper, you won’t be a critic any longer. They’ll make you a proper show business reporter—and I can hold my head up again.’

  Too bad Jilly left early, heh-heh-heh. She’d be hysterical when she discovered she’d missed all the action.

  ‘Win—’ Miranda touched her husband’s arm—‘you’re looking exhausted. I think they’ll excuse us, if we leave now. You need your rest. You can bring Monty home with us, if you like.’

  Not yet. The cat jumped free, staggering slightly as he hit the stage. He was exhausted, too. He wanted to slip away and have a long, long sleep. He couldn’t cope with anything more tonight—this morning. It was all too much. He couldn’t even think any more, even though there was still much that needed thinking about. He was wiped out, nothing but one instinct left. The instinct that told him to sleep.

  What was that? Beneath the rumble of conversation, his ears had picked up the faint scrabbling sounds. Over by the trestle table … the remains of the food …

  He started over, not noticing that The Instrument, head cocked to one side, was following him. Up there, by the cheeseboard …

  Before he could leap to the tabletop, The Instrument had blundered into it. With a desperate squeal, the mouse raced across the table and launched itself to the ground. Monty pounced.

  GOT—There was a cracking of heads, a blinding pain, then blackness …

  The floor was cold and hard. His head ached abominably. There was too much noise out there somewhere … people rushing around and shouting …

  ‘Win! Miranda was crying. ‘Win—’

  ‘Don’t try to move him.’ That was Geoffrey. Sound lad, Geoffrey.

  ‘That’s right, dear. It might do more harm than good.’ Tottie had the right idea, too.

  ‘I’ll go get the ambulance paramedics.’ That was Rufus, squeamish to the last. ‘At least, there isn’t any blood.’

  ‘There wasn’t before,’ Tottie pointed out. ‘That doesn’t mean—Sorry, dear. No, please, you’d better not touch him. Not yet.’

  That was right. He didn’t want anyone to touch him. Not even Miranda. He wanted to wait and gather his strength … just enough strength to steal away to Wardrobe … curl up on a cushion and sleep … and sleep … and sleep …

  ‘What happened?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘It happened so fast, I didn’t see—’

  ‘There was a poor little mouse,’ Miranda said. ‘Monty tried to catch it and Win—Win tried to stop him. Win tried to protect it.’

  A likely story. The Great Lump was trying to catch it himself, trying to steal his mouse! It was all coming back to him … They had pounced at the same moment—and collided head to head. Again. His head still hurt but … Cautiously, he risked opening his eyes.

  Miranda and Tottie knelt on one side of him. Miranda’s eyes were blurred with tears. Tottie’s face was grave with concern. He stared up at them blankly.

  There was a faint movement on the other side of him. He turned his head and met two long narrow green eyes that closed, opened, closed and opened again; black ears and white whiskers twitched groggily.

  ‘Hello, Monty,’ he said.

  It took him a long moment to realize that he was looking at Monty from the outside.

  35

  SERPENT IN THE HEATHER

  100th Performance

  HOUSE FULL

  ‘Here’s to Win and Miranda—’ Rufus raised his champagne glass high. ‘One hundred consecutive performances, despite Win’s, er, health problem.

  ‘And here’s to—’ he moved on quickly—‘Peter Farley. We’re delighted to welcome him back into the cast tonight after his, er—’ Another health problem, he moved on even more quickly.

  ‘And here’s to the one-thousandth performance—when we’ll really have a party to celebrate!’

  Amid the cheers, Winstanley Fortescue twitched his shoulders restlessly. Rufus did run on so. Why didn’t he get to the important news? By the one-thousandth—nay, by the two hundredth—performance, the Chesterton would be Under New Management. Winstanley Fortescue’s Management.

  Not that there was any secret about it; everyone knew that negotiations had been going on since Fortescue’s recovery. No … don’t think about that. Perhaps Rufus was waiting until the final papers had been signed and sealed. That would be the occasion for another gala party.

  ‘Well done, Peter!’ He’d said it to Farley earlier, but it couldn’t be repeated too often. Farley deserved every bit of praise coming to him.

  ‘Thanks, it’s good to be back.’ Peter looked around with satisfaction. ‘I was lucky my replacement got that offer he couldn’t refuse for a new TV series.’

  ‘You’re also lucky you’ve got a hard skull,’ Win said.

  ‘Yes.’ Peter shrugged. ‘When I looked up in the mirror and saw that distorted face behind me and something swinging down on my head—it was too late to escape. He thought I was you. He really hated you, Win. If only Rufus had fired him when you asked him to, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘Rufus wasn’t in a position to fire anyone just then.’ Winstanley Fortescue spoke bitterly; they were still arguing over the back salaries owed to the staff, but Rufus was damned well going to pay them, he could afford to now that the show was a success.

  ‘What were you doing in my dressing-room, anyway?’ He’d be
en wanting to ask that; Peter had had long interviews with the police, but the rest of them hadn’t got much out of him yet. He wouldn’t ask why Peter had been sitting at his dressing-table—for luck, obviously. Only it hadn’t worked that way.

  ‘I was looking for my walking stick,’ Peter said. ‘I’d misplaced it—or thought I had—but I knew it was around the theatre somewhere. I wasn’t worried about it until I, er, saw that picture of you. The peculiar-shaped bruise on your back, that started me thinking … To tell the truth, I was afraid I might be blamed—if anyone found the stick and realized what it was.’

  ‘Woody knew.’ The police had told them that much. Cattle prods were used by some owners to separate their animals at the dog fights. Woody had recognized it and appropriated it. After using it on Win, he’d dropped it into the clutter of poles and slats, only to find that it had disappeared when he went looking for it later, not realizing that one of his workmates had replaced it in the umbrella stand, assuming that it belonged there.

  Woody had been looking for the walking stick in the dressing-room Peter and Geoffrey shared on the night he … Monty … he …

  ‘Are you all right?’ Peter asked anxiously. Win was shaking his head, almost dazedly.

  ‘Yes. Fine. That is …’ Win looked uncomfortable. ‘I seem to have had some strange … illusions … dreams … while I … Sometimes they come back to me …’

  ‘Funny thing, head injuries.’ Peter could sympathize. ‘I seem to be all right that way myself. Barring the occasional nightmare.’

  What dreams may come … Win knew suddenly that Monty was there staring at him. He always knew when the cat was looking at him—and vice-versa, it seemed. Monty had moved back into the Chesterton and refused to leave it. Not that he had tried to lure Monty back to the house. It seemed almost as though they had been so close that they had mutually decided it was time to put a bit of distance between them again. More comfortable for both of them. Not, of course, that he believed for a moment … Not now that he was back in full strength and health again …

  Monty was regarding him intently.